


Dead Man Walking

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied Mystrade, Spoilers for S2 Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:06:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach, Mycroft goes to a church and has a quiet word with the dead. (He has GOT to stop doing that. People will talk.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Man Walking

“Stop here, thank you.” Mycroft’s eyes never left the phone in his hand. The car glided to a halt, and Mycroft stepped out, smoothing his coat, lifting his chin, his eyes on the busy market across the street. It was crowded and loud, even on a dreary, rainy Saturday morning. He looked away from the crowds as he swung around the barrier and onto the stairs toward the cathedral. There was a homeless man sitting halfway down, a dark knit cap over greasy brown hair, an empty paper coffee cup in one hand, a piece of scribbled-over cardboard in the other. The most obvious writing was “God bless you,” although Mycroft noticed the “Shrlok woz legit” on one corner. He sighed.

He was halfway across the walkway toward the cathedral when he finally spoke. “A bit public, for a dead man, isn’t it?”

“There’s a church.” 

“How amusing,” he sighed, but continued to the door of the church and slipped inside. “John’s army are getting a little obvious, don’t you think?”

“Not my problem.”

“Oh, for the life of a dead man. Perhaps next time I shall be the one to... go underground, as it were.”

Sherlock stepped past, taking a seat at the end of one of the pews. Mycroft sat behind him, and Sherlock half-turned, tucking his leg up onto the bench. His face was thinner than Mycroft had ever seen it, the cheekbones stretching his skin, leaving dark hollows under the pale eyes. He left the hood of his white sweatshirt up, covering his hair, which was currently a gingery blonde. He had a dark denim jacket over the sweatshirt, his hands buried in the pockets. 

“I really don’t think death would suit you, Mycroft. Too much legwork.”

“Only because you’re doing it wrong.” He gave Sherlock a tight smile. “Do you need anything?” Mycroft went on more quietly.

“A cigarette would be nice.”

“Has it been so dull?”

Sherlock smiled grimly. “Hardly.”

“What would you like me to do about John?”

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes drifting away. “I told you. Not my problem.”

“He’s hurting, you know.”

“Yes.”

“You know him better than I do. Are you sure he won’t do anything drastic?”

“It was your decision, not mine. He was a soldier, remember? I’m not the first person he’s lost.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted, and he looked down at his hands. “How long do you think before you’ve finished?”

“Palestine’s done. All that remain are Greece and Italy.”

“You’re sure about the Russian?”

“He was never a threat. An opportunist. No organization there.”

“Do you anticipate any more travel?”

“Why? Have you closed the account?”

“No. But you may need a new passport.”

“Ah. I’ll send someone to pick it up.”

“No need.” Mycroft reached inside his jacket and slipped the dark burgundy booklet out between two fingers. 

Sherlock took it, flicking through the pages. “Oh, wonderful. I’ve always wanted to see New Zealand. Now it seems I have.” He turned it sideways, examining a visa. “Did I enjoy it?”

“It was only for three weeks. You were twenty-two at the time.”

“Probably too drunk to remember much, then.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft looked down at his hands. “Have you given any thought to how you want to tell him? When the time comes.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I’ve thought about it.” He smiled, and laughed a little. “It’s no good, though. I may as well just turn up in the flat without warning. No matter what I do, he’s going to break my nose, this time.”

Mycroft smiled, nodding. “True. Would you like me to tell anyone else for you? Mrs Hudson, perhaps? Lestrade?”

“Oh, now that one I will leave to you,” Sherlock said quickly. “John is only going to try to kill me, but Lestrade will lecture me as well. And then arrest me.”

“I’ve dealt with the charges.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll find some new ones.”

“Another drugs bust.”

Sherlock smiled. “Mrs Hudson, though. I shouldn’t like to cause a cardiac event.”

“We can soften her up first. John’s hope is more like faith. He believes in you, in the idea of you, but with a soldier’s doubt. He’s seen too much ugliness on the battlefield to be unthinkingly certain. But Mrs Hudson... well. Feminine intuition? A mother’s love? Do you know what she said to Mrs Turner when she saw the first graffiti about you?” Sherlock shook his head slightly. “She wanted to know why they bothered. She said, ‘It’s like saying I believe in air. It doesn’t matter if you believe in it or not, it’s still going to exist.’” Mycroft smiled sadly, looking down again.

“Be careful with her...Mycroft,” Sherlock said, hesitantly. “Please.”

Mycroft nodded once. He took a deep breath. “Well. We don’t want to keep anyone waiting.” He stood up, watching Sherlock unfold himself and follow. “And this time, really, Sherlock, try not to start a war. We don’t want to be doing this again in another three years, do we?”

Sherlock gave him a half-smile, and turned away, striding off toward the door. “I shall see you around.”

Mycroft watched him leave. “Not if John sees you first.”


End file.
